The Truths of Gods
by a tattered rose
Summary: It was her night. Her night to be a god. That was what she wanted, and she was good at getting what she wanted.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Truths of Gods

Summary: It was her night. Her night to be a god. That was what she wanted, and she was good at getting what she wanted.

A/N: Formerly "Coming to an End." Title wasn't working for me. Constructive criticism always received eagerly.

It would feel like it had always felt. It would feel like she had always thought it would feel. Nothing like it, nothing else but the real, real feel of the truth of the life she was living each day.

She was fuzzy right now, felt okay but it was not what she wanted. Not what she wanted to feel.

It was nighttime, it was chill, and the one thought running loops inside her head was something she remembered Hemingway had said: start any story with something that is true.

It was nighttime, it was chill, and Dr. Lisa Cuddy sat atop the roof of her hospital alone. Sat with her back against the low wall and an open bottle of Jack Daniels and an unopened pack of Marboros at her feet. She didn't really know why she was there, tonight, except she had never wanted this before.

Every day, you should do one impossible thing.

Who said this? She couldn't remember. Maybe no one ever had. Maybe you were meant daily to dream an impossible thing, and only expected to do something that was possible, but novel. It wasn't a distinction she felt inclined to ponder further. Anyway, it was certainly an impossible thing for the Princeston Plainsboro Dean of Medicine to be drinking hard liquor and contemplating a smoke there on those hallowed grounds of medicine.

Impossible, and here she was. One down, either way. Here she was hoping, perhaps foolishly, to travel back in time during the one night she had stolen for the attempt.

One night to do her life over, if only in her mind. One night in which she didn't feel lost, or confused. One night in which she _felt_ like an omnipotent god watching over the building and people beneath her. Because she knew everything.

It was a romantic mission. It didn't feel romantic. A little hazy, mostly tired, all the things she needed to do swirling in her mind in constant danger of falling out if she didn't keep checking them back into line.

She closed her eyes. Leaned her head against the cold cement. She wouldn't give in, because she had vowed she would not. Not tonight.

Always begin with one true thing. With closed eyes, all that existed was her own train of thought. I think, therefore I am – but where did that get her? When all she knew herself to be was the very thing she had resolved to get up?

She was... She breathed. Cold air pricked inside her nose, down her throat. More cold – wind – exhaled on her face and neck, playfully ruffling loose strands of her hair. Her shoulders, arms and breasts were confined by the stiff tailored material of her structured jacket. So then. Slowly, savoring her movements, she took it off. She allowed goosebumps to rise on flesh now unprotected but for the silky ruffles of her shirt.

All she had to do was start with one true thing, and she had lied. To the wind. To the building. To herself. She was only pretending. She had wanted to know the feeling, and now she was shrinking back.

There was wind. And a siren. Calling, close by, coming closer and when her eyes sprang open her careful cocoon of sensation and thought was lost. Her mind sprang open, lost focus, tangled in nothings and everythings around her.

A siren. And a hospital. Life was moving forwards all around and she felt herself pulled downstairs to join in the fight of the body. All that held her back were the cigarettes: unopened, the bottle: still almost full, and the thing in her pocket she didn't want to have to put back. It was okay. She wasn't drunk. Couldn't be, on what was missing. She was on her feet now. Almost ready to leave but...

She had wanted to feel. Had gathered her supplies, finished her paperwork and brought herself up to the roof. Had coded it into her schedule that tonight was her night to try.

Lisa Cuddy did what she told herself to do.

She sat back down, chugged another slug of whiskey. Pulled her secret from her pocket and tucked it under her tongue. It was still not too late but she had promised herself, and all she had to do was sit quiet until it dissolved.

So she sat, and was quiet, and she waited. And she knew she was not ready. Not to go downstairs. Not now, not to talk to a donor, or talk to a family. Not to face a lawyer. Or Wilson or any other doctor or patient or even any person off the street. Not tonight, when -he- was meant to be gone for sure and -she- was meant to have the hospital alone to herself. It was her night, tonight, and with her luck it would yet be ruined but there was no reason she couldn't have it. No reason she wouldn't have it.

To while the time she opened her cigarettes, and brought one to her lips.

Cuddy sat quiet and felt the breeze, and shivered a little and hoped, secretly, that her night wouldn't work even more than she hoped it would work. Because she'd moved on and was a little to mature for all this and really, it was a pleasant and peaceful night with a wonderful view here from the top of her hospital. And with the wisps of smoke curling next to her, she felt a little bit wicked and realized she was smiling and this made her quite pleased with herself and her night but for the ungainly thumping she could hear from behind the door leading downstairs.

It was a janitor, at an unfortunate time. It must be. No one knew she was here, no one would be coming up here, by stairs. No one. She would be alone tonight. Except, to admit the truth, she would have company shortly. And those footsteps, the clunks. They didn't sound like erratic footsteps anymore, but a musical beat, the kind for which you had to build claps into a complex rhythm, just to pull out the three specific notes you wanted. And she could hear those claps, and tapped her fingers lightly along, hitting just a bit harder along with the stresses. When her arm moved, when the tobacco hissed as she inhaled, notes were added and she -felt- them melding along, indicating a symphony she couldn't quite hear.

And when the door swung open she remembered what those stressed beats were, and knew it was House. She didn't turn her head, but her fingers slowed in the relative silence, in holding pattern, waiting for the next movement. Her mind felt razor sharp, taking in everything, but there was nothing there now and maybe she was wrong and it had all been a dream. Or a truck passing below. "Go away House." If there was no one but her, no one would care if she was embarrassing herself. No one would bother her if she was wrong.

The silence continued, and she liked her sense of hope, but for the twinge of disappointment that came with it.

And then:

Her fingers fell once more into the complicated rhythm as she anticipated each footfall, each rap of the cane. So different now, but so much the same. If she closed her eyes she could see him walking, and with curiosity imagined how it would feel. Which muscles would be working, how much, how would her right shoulder move in relation to her left hip. Her muscles twitched in response, mimicking the movements in her mind. A waltz.

And she looked down, in her mind, as she came to a halt. Planting cane shifting weight just like every other stop before. Waiting for herself to look up, and break her moment of clarity. Already it was leaving, already she knew she wasn't alone, it was with regret she felt her stolen night of solitude coming to an end.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Constructive criticism vastly appreciated. I'm finding House-fic much more difficult to get out than other things I write for.

It was silent now once more, but for the wind and the cars. She knew if she reached out her hand her fingers would brush wood, would drag against worn jeans if she stretched out just a little. If she had dreamed she was still dreaming, and she had already made her move. It wasn't her turn. A flick of her thumb and she brought the cigarette back to her lips, inhaling slowly and wondering why it was she should enjoy breathing in hot smoke and ash.

It was not her turn and she was in no rush.

And then:

"Skipped that day of kindergarten did you?"

She kept her eyes closed, hoping he would disappear if she didn't speak, didn't hear, wasn't there either. Except she was, and he was, and suddenly something hard and cold knocked against her leg with a twang.

"You're supposed to share."

She grabbed it quick, reflexively, and found her hand around her bottle of Jack. It was a nice bottle, smooth cylinder tapering out to the comfortably blunted corners of an other-wise square. Here for a reason and tasty, too, and she opened her eyes to watch, finally, as she twisted the top and took a tiny mouthful of the lush bitter liquid. It was... different. The taste was so different from what she felt, what she heard, what she saw now her eyes were opened on the dark flat roof. It weighted her hand, gently so gently fatiguing her muscles as she held the bottle up towards the hint of denim and wood she could verify out the corner of her eye. He was there, somewhere, but she wasn't going to look for him, not on her night.

Held it aloft, still, through the sharp rap of cane dropped to the ground, the shuffling movements as House lowered himself beneath her. And, finally, the weight was lifted from her, liquid sloshing as for a minute, they both held the bottle. Then she let go, and took another drag from the cigarette. It was this, she thought. Holding fire in one's hand, in the service of pleasure. It was like holding House in her palm. Dangerous, exciting, so long as you are in control. And he was there, taking a drink now, not replacing the lid when he set the bottle back between their legs. She knew he was watching her, waiting for a sign, looking for a tear or a sigh. Because she was doing something unexpected and he knew why. But it was her night, now.

She sighed. "What do you want?"

"How are you?" For the moment he was so quiet, sounded almost sincere. His hand twitched as it rested near the bottle and she was appalled to think that he was considering touching her, as if what she wanted was petting to feel better.

Immediately she wanted to pull away, but sat still instead, taking a last puff thoughtfully, stubbing her cigarette purposefully before she answered. "That's not what you want to know."

His hand twitched again. "I'm curious."

"Ok then, how are you?" And this time, with her voice so level, so bare of her usual concern, she knew she had surprised him again.

His hand stilled, his voice now cautious as he answered. "Sometimes we lose. It's part of the job."

Sometimes they lose. They lose sometimes, like a fumble in a ball game. As if they were dealt a poor hand in cards. Her mind ran through these images, thinking of the gravity with which an impassioned announcer would recite those same words after an important game. 'Sometimes we lose.' He would sound just like House did, and Cuddy started to laugh. All those years, all that work, to administer over a sport. No wonder he had no respect for her. Still chuckling, she lit another cigarette, offering him the box. This was a moment for which she wanted fire in her hands.

"House. We killed a woman today. We didn't lose a fight, we killed her. Threw the game." And then, idly "Eight Men Out and one down" because it had occurred to her as a little witty and very true, and it amused her to have thought of it and to hear it aloud.

"Not on purpose. We're... You're not God, Cuddy." Now he must think her hysterical, he was once again, pathetically, almost solicitous.

So for the first time she turned her head to look him in the eye. She'd already known she had a secret one up (an Ace up her sleeve, ha!) but he was looking back with severe disadvantage. Even at his worst, she had always seen in House what you could own but not buy. A sense of self so strong there was not a man inside but a conviction. A conviction with humour, with rare compassion, with a mischievous bent: but a conviction nonetheless which you had to respect. Now she saw no such thing. Maybe because they were too close, and she was seeing small weaknesses and imperfections of the flesh that is usually blurred by distance. And his crumpled figure was due to the awkward way he had sat, half slouched against the wall.

Maybe it had to do with him looking straight over at her. So often when they met, he was looking down at her, because he was so much taller or because she was seated at her desk. Or he was looking defiantly upwards, if she was visiting him. Maybe that was the secret to being a god of your own design: never condescend to meet things head on, but always attack obliquely.

Tonight she had made herself a god. Goddess. But it was uncomfortable to have someone she didn't know anymore sitting so close. She toed off her heels and did a satisfyingly smooth pirouette crouched on the balls of her feet until she was reseated facing him, pondering from some small distance.

"I am what I want to be." It was simple and it was true. Just like what she had just discovered: it was fun to move. She wanted to move more. Wanted to feel the freedom of each muscle as it flexed or contracted, motions too graceful to be entirely under her conscious control. She wanted to watch herself catch a ball, feel her body orient itself to intersect a trajectory it would take her minutes to compute with a calculator in hand. Was this what House felt? If so, what torture it must be to be crippled so.

"And what's that?" He was watching her and she knew he would have offered his own suggestions, if he had any idea what it was she was about to say next herself. And not knowing made him suspicious.

What was she going to say next? What had they been speaking of? Oh yes, god. She thought it would normally bother her, not being able to remember the discourse of a minute before. But then, she really didn't care anymore about it. It was pointless and false. They were lying to each other because House was broken.

"I am free." She would get up and spin now, until she couldn't balance. Then skip and hop, all those games she hadn't played since childhood. She would, but first she and House must finish.

He was searching her eyes now, not missing the mostly full bottle of alcohol or the still plump pack of cigarettes. "Cuddy – are you high?" Her response was a smile and he drew himself up to kneel in order to get closer. "What did you take?" And he was looking at her like Wilson looked at him sometimes, with measure of panic due to lack of faith. Even though she was a doctor too, she knew dosage and side effects, and he couldn't possibly think she was trying to commit suicide. Looking at her like he always scoffed to be looked at. He hated it and here he was, a hypocrite.

And that was it, that was the death, for her, of Dr. House. A mythic man, a god by design.

And that was very disappointing because she had liked idolizing him. Loved that he defied her disillusionment so long past when everyone else had proven themselves nothing but ordinary. And still thought what passed as their friendship entirely depended upon these facts: her belief and his substantiating acts. That's who he was, and if there was anything left without it, then there was no House at all.

Or he had been ordinary all along, she just hadn't let herself see it.

She was tired. She wanted to move on with her night. Move on with her life. Hurry up and change and finally get to be excited about fresh new starts. His gaze annoyed her, his prodding, his interruption of _her_ night which he had yet, like always, managed to make about _him. _And to be truthful, finally – she just no longer cared.

"You're fired."

"You can't fire me, I have tenure." There was the old certainty in his voice, but he wasn't right. Even his logic wasn't right, since tenure wasn't unbreakable and how could he think nothing had changed?

"The paperwork's complete and on my desk. You're well beyond three strikes – you know that. The board wouldn't even have been able to make a decision until next week except every single person in that room knew you had to go. Yes. Even Wilson."

Wilson was a loyal friend, but he was also a doctor, and a friend to Cuddy. She hadn't known how good a friend until he had shown such perfect understanding of her character. To know that House had not only led her to kill her oldest and perhaps last friend. But had severed her trust permanently when he left her all alone.

"Officially it's still a suspension pending investigation, but we wanted you to know. So you can make arrangements, or go on a trip if you like. You'll be paid through the end of the month."

If she could no longer trust him, he couldn't stay. If he was no longer Dr. House, she wouldn't defend him. If he was no longer a container for truth, she didn't want to know him. It was impossible.

Whatever he thought, whatever he saw in her, he seemed at least to understand that she was serious. She may be high, but this was the truth.

Because he got to his feet, slowly, painfully, and left Dr. Lisa Cuddy sitting atop the roof of her hospital alone.

She sat free and erect, with a bottle of Jack Daniels and an opened pack of Marboros lying forgotten a yard away.

She knew why she was here, tonight, she knew who she was and she knew what she wanted. She knew it would all change in the morning, become messy once more. But tonight was her night, her night to feel and to know, and she was done lying.


End file.
